Road to Redemption: The Progression of a Killer
by Ariel D
Summary: Story 1. Jarlaxle makes a discovery about Entreri’s childhood, and the two learn a little bit more about the nature of friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**Important Note, 10/15/05: **This was my very first fanfic; I finished writing it on May 9, 2004 and began posting it to Lavender Eyes on May 13, 2004. It is the first story in what became a series of ongoing adventures for Artemis and Jarlaxle. As such, I have left it as it was, and it is unlikely I shall revise it. Therefore, please enjoy it as is.

This fanfic is meant to take place several months after "Empty Joys." The story is heavily based upon "The Third Level" from _Realms of Infamy_, in which we learn that as a child, Entreri was sexually abused by his father, uncle, and a man on a caravan. If reading about childhood sexual abuse and rape bothers you, do not proceed.

**Update, Oct. 2006:** Obviously, this fanfic was written back in 2004, long before the release of RotP. Like I said in the above paragraph, I based my fanfics on "The Third Level," a short story RAS wrote back in 1993. In that story, fourteen year old Entreri remembers being sexually abused by three people, not just his uncle. I will not change this story in light of the revision in RotP, so simply take the change with a grain of salt.

As for other differences, I built my fanfics on SotS, and I took these characters forward on one possible road they could have chosen. Some of what I did bears a resemblance to what RAS did, and the rest is **AU** as of 2005. So please enjoy these stories as an alternative fate for our beloved characters--a path they could have taken but one RAS didn't choose to explore.

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**The Road to Redemption: The Progression of a Killer**

By Ariel

_Description: Jarlaxle makes a discovery about Entreri's childhood, and the two learn a little bit more about the nature of friendship. Warning: violence, torture, and implied child abuse. Drama/Action/Angst. _

Disclaimer: Jarlaxle and Artemis Entreri belong to R.A. Salvatore and Wizards of the Coast, as do Drizzt and Zaknafein. The following story is just for the amusement of the fans and will never make any profit. Like many other fanfic writers, I am a very poor student, so suing me would do no one any good.

**Chapter 1**

Artemis Entreri sighed as he and his traveling companion ventured out of the caves. The winding tunnels in the foothills had provided Jarlaxle and him with ample cover from the night's rain, but the morning, while clear, was not promising. High summer had arrived to the lands southwest of Damara, and it had brought with it an unusually high temperature for such a normally temperate place. The humidity was suffocating already, though it was only midmorning, and waves of heat rippled up from the hard-packed dirt road as the sunlight punished the travelers with a burning glare. Within minutes, sweat coursed down Entreri's forehead, and he pushed his cloak off his shoulders in an attempt to cool off. The assassin scowled. Heat was fine; he'd lived in a desert environment for almost his entire life. Humidity was evil. Fortunately, the companions' destination was the forest, and while the ample cover from the canopy of trees would not alleviate the humidity, it would cut down on both the glare and the heat.

Jarlaxle chatted away in his usual manner as they entered the trees; Entreri had rarely known one capable of such endless chatter. But the verdant foliage and sweet scent of honeysuckle in the surrounding forest enchanted the drow, just as the towering snow-capped mountains behind them had. This, of course, won the assassin a speech on their fine surroundings:

"Surely you cannot be immune to such beauty!" the elf was saying. "Even if you cannot appreciate the mountains arching toward the very heavens, you should exclaim over these vibrant purple . . ." Jarlaxle faltered in his dramatic speech as he eyed the flowers.

"Just call them wild flowers," Entreri said.

"Wild flowers, then! Or this colorful plant which is racing across the forest floor," Jarlaxle pointed to the right of the dirt path, where a vine-like tangle seemed to chaotically weave its way around everything in sight.

"That's wild strawberry," Entreri noted. "More of a weed, really."

Jarlaxle was undeterred. "What a world you live in, if even weeds are beautiful!"

Entreri held in a sigh and gave up. Ever did this one find beauty in the landscape! Still, Entreri suspected a second reason for the speech; the drow, in his irritating, cheerful manner, seemed bent upon trying to show the assassin something about beauty, although the man wasn't quite sure why.

But their surroundings likely only added to the drow's delight over their most recent adventure: a dangerous stint as bodyguards for a noble lady that had lined their pockets quite well. The companions had been hired by a family locked in a generations-old internal feud, and they had been promised much to keep a beloved daughter safe. Never had Entreri understood the use of the phrase "hair-raising," but after the resulting battle with a lich, the assassin had to admit he was now closer to understanding the expression.

"Although perhaps we should reconsider our attitude toward our new mission," Jarlaxle was saying.

Surprised, Entreri focused more fully on the dark elf's running dialogue. "We should?"

Unlike their previous job, their current mission seemed more mundane to Entreri. After quickly traveling far away from their previous employers in Raven's Bluff, they'd wandered into a remote city even further southwest of their original haunt in Damara, and upon arrival, they'd been almost immediately hired by a crime family to capture—alive—a highly-wanted assassin named Merrick. "Capturing the man does not sound overly difficult," Entreri said. "His skills in covering his trail have proven less than impressive, and we should catch up to him within the day."

"Perhaps," Jarlaxle replied. "But while you slept the other night, I decided to gather a bit more information about this forest, and the locals hold that there is a fortress hidden out here, a base of operations for a criminal by the name of Brok Waylein. The locals seem quite fearful of him, spinning tales of dark magic and unimaginable torture."

"Wonderful."

"Even with my considerable talents," Jarlaxle continued with a smile, "I was unable to determine exactly where this fortress is said to be or who this Waylein really is. If our friend is connected to him, however, we may be facing greater odds than we originally thought."

"I would hardly be surprised to hear that the assassin has connections," Entreri said, his boredom evident, "but as long as we do not rush in like fools—"

"Proper reconnaissance and careful preparation of the battle field," Jarlaxle chimed in, smiling for all the realms like he hoped to meet resistance.

"Unless you want to die," the assassin said snidely, then dropped the subject. No one loved a challenge more than Entreri, but as the companions continued down the well-trodden trail, he admitted that Jarlaxle preferred living on the edge of disaster.

Yet Entreri's contemplation of his likely imminent death floated away from him as they ventured deeper into the forest, which revealed to them trees with trunks as thick as buildings. Jarlaxle fell into a nearly-awed silence while he contemplated the massive, towering trees that dwarfed them and likewise seemed fascinated by the torso-thick vines looping from tree to tree.

"These plants are even more spectacular than the previous ones!" he remarked, and Entreri shook his head, once again amazed at his friend.

The assassin, however, was more concerned with immediate, practical issues, for as they rounded the corner, they found a river with no bridge to cross it. Posts on each side of the riverbank revealed that a bridge had once existed, but it had been swept away, presumably by the raging waters of the spring melt-off.

"Improper maintenance," the drow chided.

Entreri considered their options, keeping in mind the width and possible depth of the water. "Best just to use a vine to swing across."

Jarlaxle nodded in agreement, and the human went across first, landing neatly on the opposite embankment with cat-like precision. Instantly, every instinct in the warrior-assassin's mind flared, and he drew his weapons so quickly his arms likely seemed a blur to any onlookers. The first arrow whizzed in, and he batted it aside with only a breath to spare. Ten forms burst from the undergrowth, all closing on Entreri's position, even as the assassin's quick eyes picked out a dozen archers. Jarlaxle landed behind him a moment later, and Entreri knew it would be a fierce battle indeed when their attackers surrounded them. However, even though these were experienced and talented men and women, the assassin had faith in his and his partner's ability to either defeat them or escape with their lives.

An exclamation at his back was Entreri's first indication that something was horribly, unutterably wrong. Even Jarlaxle's yelp of surprise did not prepare the assassin for what he realized next: Charon's Claw, his powerful, deadly sword, had not responded to his command to emit its ash. When the drow's daggers did not begin cutting down their enemies, Entreri drew the only logical conclusion: they had crossed into a dead magic zone.

However, Entreri was a survivor to the deepest core of his being, so he didn't miss a beat as the realization struck him. He met the attack of the first two swordsmen with all his customary skill, using his sword to turn aside the first man's blade with an inside block. While his dagger would not draw the life-force from his attackers, Entreri didn't need its power to kill, so he thrust the blade forward without hesitation. His opponent parried even as the second attacker tried to impale Entreri from behind, but the assassin ducked and turned, twisting beneath the blades and leveling his sword simultaneously, forcing both men back. The instant Entreri jumped aside, gaining space in which to launch his next attack, a crossbow bolt whizzed past his face, cutting so close it opened a gash along his jaw. With the two swordsmen rushing him, Entreri hadn't the time to locate the crossbowman, but he knew he'd do well to remember both the hidden attacker and the archers.

Not ten feet away, Jarlaxle fought two warriors as well, and he was uncomfortably aware of remaining six swordsmen and the archers now circling the mercenaries. With the magic of his bracers defeated, the drow couldn't attack with daggers or even summon two daggers to turn into swords. In fact, the situation was dire, indeed, for Jarlaxle couldn't use even one of his many wands or engage the enchantment upon his cloak, which would misdirect the warriors' attacks. Instead, the drow had to rely on wit.

Fighting empty-handed, Jarlaxle employed his speed to grab the first swordsman's wrist and hold his blade out wide. Instantly he stepped forward, punching the man in the sternum. The man gasped and coughed, and Jarlaxle, without letting go of his grip on the man's wrist, altered his momentum to whirl under the man's arm and twist his arm behind his back. This caused the man to drop his sword, which Jarlaxle caught on the toe of his boot and flipped up into the air to catch in his free hand. It also provided the drow with a living shield against his second attacker.

However, before Jarlaxle could press his advantage, a sharp sting in his shoulder alerted him to the fact he'd been shot. The drow glanced back quickly, seeing a crossbow bolt protruding from his back. With a curse, he continued his attack, shoving his captive into the second warrior in order to stop his charge. But the burn in Jarlaxle's veins told him the bolt had been poisoned.

The drow had just enough time to witness Entreri taking a bolt in the arm before a cold darkness ripped his consciousness from him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Hours later, Artemis Entreri was not surprised at all to awaken on the cold, damp floor of a poorly lit dungeon. His grogginess and pounding headache told him he'd likely been drugged by some type of dart, and he suspected the crossbow bolt had been to blame.

A small, warm hand briefly touched his forehead, and Entreri wrenched open his eyes in an attempt to determine if the hand in question belonged to a particular drow elf. Sure enough, Jarlaxle was sitting by him on the floor and looking a bit worse for wear. The assassin felt relieved to see the elf still alive, but the many bruises decorating the mercenary's face reminded the man that their position was precarious indeed. Why had they been taken alive? And by whom? This Waylein man Jarlaxle had mentioned earlier?

Entreri pushed himself to a sitting position with great effort and scooted himself back to lean against the wall by his companion. He took a moment to try to clear his thoughts, but everything seemed fuzzy. The light of the single torch outside their cell appeared hazy to him, and the rhythmic dripping of water somewhere in the cell seemed to echo in his head. Despite this, every single cut, bruise, knot, and bump on his body didn't hesitate to make itself known.

"How are you feeling, my friend?" the elf asked, his voice conveying a slight weariness beneath his customary lightheartedness.

"Groggy," Entreri answered truthfully. His drugged mind fought to sort out all the details, and the man's face screwed into a frown as he noted that Jarlaxle didn't seem quite . . . right.

With a sudden clearing of his mind, Entreri realized that Jarlaxle was not wearing his outrageous hat, his customary eye patch, or his multi-colored cape. He wasn't wearing any jewelry or his bracers. In fact, Jarlaxle wasn't wearing any of his own clothing or items at all. He was adorned in nothing more than an oversized and long-sleeved white cotton shirt that laced up the front and a pair of slightly baggy brown cotton pants. Entreri stared with comprehending horror—their captors had determined the nature of their prisoners.

"They took your clothes," the assassin stated.

"An unpleasant process even when one is half-drugged," Jarlaxle quipped. "And such horrid taste in clothing they have, as well!"

Entreri shook his head over the drow's undefeatable spirit, but he couldn't miss noting that Jarlaxle looked a bit chilled in the wrinkled, thin, and nearly see-through cotton. He sat curled in upon himself, his knees bent up so he could rest his chin upon them and his arms wrapped loosely about his legs. Small ebon-skinned elven feet protruded from the ends of the pants legs, and even as Entreri watched a flash of goosebumps ran up Jarlaxle's neck and onto his bare head. Of more concern to the assassin, however, were the red splotches that had bled through the shirt in places. "How severely are you injured?" he asked.

Jarlaxle graced him with a self-depreciating grin. "Oh, I will live."

"For now," Entreri growled, not at all happy with the situation. Of course his own hat was gone, along with his belt and cloak. He could only hope that Charon's Claw had killed at least one of the soldiers when they took it from him . . . provided that the dead magic zone had not also stopped that particular effect of sentient sword. "What have you figured out?"

"We are the prisoners of one Brok Waylein, although I am unsure why we have been captured. We're free of the dead magic zone, but one of our captors is a wizard of not inconsiderable skill. Also, I know where our quarry, Merrick, is."

Entreri raised an eyebrow.

Jarlaxle waved in a grand gesture toward the cell across from theirs. The assassin glanced over and saw a large blonde man leaning against the bars of his own cell, his arms sticking through the bars.

"Welcome to the first of the nine hells," the man quipped in a deep baritone voice, a wry grin lighting up his wide face. His large nose was helplessly crooked, which to Entreri made him look somewhat like a stereotypical pirate.

"Just perfect," the assassin retorted.

"Perhaps you would like to expand upon that comment?" Jarlaxle asked Merrick, standing and walking up to the bars.

Merrick's expression turned thoughtful. "Should I help those sent to hunt me down?" His wide grin returned, flashing an impressive set of straight, if yellowed, teeth. "Ah, why not? In short, Waylein is a sadist." Merrick's tone left no doubt to the depth of his conviction.

Jarlaxle paused to consider this revelation and leaned against the bars of his own cell, matching Merrick's posture. What a human would define as sadism would likely fall short of the drow concept, but it was nothing to dismiss, either. "How so?"

"He brutally tortures all his prisoners to the point of insanity, and even oft times lets them live with the horrors they've experienced," the man replied, obviously trying to maintain bravado with his matter-of-fact tone.

Behind him, Entreri made an odd, short sound—something between a snort and a growl. Jarlaxle glanced back to the man and noted his typically grim expression. He sat with one leg down and crooked in and the other bent up, an arm slung over the raised knee. The assassin glanced away as Jarlaxle regarded him and stared at the far back corner of their cell.

"Many of Waylein's victims die in the forest because he lets them go to wander around aimlessly in their madness," Merrick continued, no doubt hoping to rouse fear in his would-be captors. "Those that are found often recover from their many physical injuries, but they spend their rest of their lives slobbering on themselves and blurting nonsensical sentences."

Jarlaxle faced the man again and nodded. "And you are here because . . .?"

"I was sent to assassinate him," Merrick replied, and his tone suggested that Jarlaxle not inquire further.

The mercenary decided one more question couldn't hurt; the man seemed to almost gleeful about giving out the disturbing information. "And he would take us alive because . . .?"

"Simple!" Merrick chirped with a rueful grin, although his smile was too forced to uphold his bravado. "Anyone who enters the forest invades his territory, and he loves to torture each and every person he meets!"

This time, Entreri's response was closer to a snort. "So we're here only for his sadistic pleasure?"

Merrick grew quite somber and serious, his cheerful façade slipping momentarily. "Yes, I'm afraid we are, and obviously dangerous types like ourselves are walking targets to be sure. Frankly, the man's atrocities are quite legendary among the . . . ah . . . less savory sorts of the region. My employer has a score to settle on the behalf of several family members, and the tale, if I were at liberty to tell it and were so inclined, would make even a drow elf uncomfortable, I dare to say."

Jarlaxle paused to digest those words. The odds did not appeal to him, but he was far from despair. His entire life had been nothing more than the overcoming of astounding odds, and the mercenary firmly believed that he would find a way out. Still, it had been a long time since he had felt so naked, alone without weapons or magical items. Well, not alone perhaps. Provided Entreri didn't decide to betray him, Jarlaxle had an angry assassin who didn't require weapons in order to kill.

Jarlaxle smiled to himself and abandoned those thoughts. He wasn't helpless, and he hadn't met a problem yet he couldn't solve.

"I find it interesting to see a dark elf in these lands," Merrick commented. "Why here?"

"Ah, the adventure," Jarlaxle remarked lightly, and the man laughed.

"A bit too much of it, perhaps," Merrick bantered, "for if you wanted to be tortured senseless I'm sure you could've just stayed home."

"Indeed," the mercenary agreed, "but likely the torture will have a different flavor here."

Merrick laughed again, although the sound was punctured by hollowness. "Maybe it will, at that."

Jarlaxle could feel Entreri's smirk without even having to turn around to look, but heavy rattling interrupted their dark jests. The three could hear the dungeon door open, and moments later a half-dozen soldiers arrived with two unconscious prisoners, a man and a woman. The pair were taken to the end of the cellblock and deposited, but the soldiers stopped at Merrick's cell on the way out.

"Time to face Waylein," the captain remarked.

"Oh, joy," the assassin quipped, but offered no resistance as the soldiers led him out.

Jarlaxle assumed that the man had a plan, but he wondered how effective it would be considering one of the six soldiers was the wizard he'd identified on his way to the dungeon. Mentally wishing the man the best of luck, the elf watched as the group disappeared down the hallway. When all the rattles and clicks subsided, Jarlaxle returned to his spot by Entreri.

"I suppose you're already deeply into your planning," Entreri remarked.

Jarlaxle smiled but didn't respond. In truth, he needed more information, but his initial assessment suggested their best course of action was to overwhelm the soldiers who would come for them later. As he sat and pondered the details, the chill of the floor seeped through the seat of his pants, and before long he shivered. To his mild surprise, the assassin looked at him with a tiny flash of concern, although he said nothing and the concern passed instantly. Such a complex one, this human, far more complex than he first seemed.

"Shall we make our move when they come for us, or shall we wait until we're out of the dungeon?" the assassin asked.

"There is the matter of the wizard," Jarlaxle answered, for once not intending to be cryptic. He was simply distracted.

Artemis Entreri, so used to the elf's evasive answers, didn't bother to even sigh. The mercenary was brilliant, he knew, and he simply trusted that Jarlaxle would reveal his plan at an appropriate moment. It was fortunate that the assassin found Jarlaxle so compelling, for surely any other would have died for frustrating the dangerous man so. But Entreri, in his own way, was vaguely amused by it despite his irritation, and felt reasonably sure that the elf held no malicious plans for him. _Let him have his mysteries,_ the assassin mused, _for surely I have mine._

Jarlaxle, however, had pursued a minor tangent that his friend's grammatically proper words had evoked. During his centuries of perilous games and intrigue, the drow had developed the ability to follow several lines of inquiry or planning at once. Even as his mind mulled over the matter of their escape, he considered once again an oddity about his friend: the man seemed educated. He spoke with grammatical correctness and could read and write. Jarlaxle assumed that Entreri had likely spent at least half his childhood living in Calimport's streets, homeless and half-starved. How did such a child become literate? The guilds might ensure that their bright recruits had basic reading skills for reasons of practicality, but would they really take time to so thoroughly train someone to read, write, and speak? Or had young Artemis Entreri come to the streets already literate? If he had, what did it mean about his childhood?

Ever was Jarlaxle trying to piece together the puzzle of Artemis Entreri.

Numerous rattles and clicks announced the return of the soldiers. "We move as one," Jarlaxle instructed quickly, "you on the left and me on the right." As he stood, he gathered within himself the innate magic of the drow, preparing to drop a globe of darkness upon the soldiers as the second stage of their attack.

But the companions never had the chance to act. The wizard, expecting such a move, froze them in place with a spell, which settled upon them so heavily Jarlaxle could barely draw breath.

The soldiers entered the cell with ease and grabbed Entreri. "You're off to meet Master Waylein, too," the captain leered as they hauled him away.

Jarlaxle watched the fading procession with narrowed eyes, his anger over the frustrating situation burning coldly in his stomach before he could rein in his emotions. He hoped that the guild houses of Calimport trained their people in torture-resistance. Entreri would be no use to him mad, and Jarlaxle had to admit he simply didn't want to see his friend suffer such a fate.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: The mode of torture and death used in this chapter was inspired by a horrifying historical anecdote I learned on my tour of Great Britain. I wish I could forget the story, and yet here I am incorporating it into a fanfic now. WARNING: If reading about rape bothers you, do not proceed._

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**Chapter 3**

Entreri tested his bonds one more time, but the magical shackles that secured his wrists and ankles to the wall did not budge. Added to his discomfort was a gash across his back which he'd taken in his attempt to break free. The wizard's spell had kept Entreri motionless for most of the trip to the chamber, but the man still had managed one failed attempt to escape.

The entire situation deeply disgusted the assassin. Obviously, he was in a private torture chamber that this Waylein figure had had custom built. The massive chamber was apparently connected to the man's bedchamber, and Entreri didn't allow himself to even consider the many, varied implications of that. Waylein himself was nowhere in sight. Merrick was hanging on the wall beside him, but the fellow assassin was unconscious and badly bloodied and bruised. With nothing else to do, Entreri studied the twenty-foot circular room. Chains hung from the ceiling to Entreri's right, a fireplace burned brightly to his left, and a torture table graced the middle of the floor. Long counters wrapped around the table on three sides, and Entreri identified several of the gleaming instruments there. Several he did not. There were many whips and riding crops, as well as a few muzzles, obviously meant for people. The scent of sweat, blood, and urine hung in the air despite the two barred, open windows across the room from him.

A line of blood trailed from the now-clean torture table to the man hanging beside him, but Entreri had long since tuned out his sense of compassion.

The door to the chamber opened, and a tall, slender man entered, followed by two stone-faced soldiers, who took up positions on either side of the door. The man looked to be in his early to mid-fifties, his short hair a grey helmet on his skull. The man's green eyes danced with mirth as he considered Entreri, and the assassin realized with further disgust that the man was humming an aimless, happy tune under his breath. As the man neared, Entreri recognized that he was fit and strong despite his age, his gait surely one that bespoke of a warrior, and when he stopped before him, Entreri found himself staring up at a man a full foot taller than he.

"Welcome to my humble fortress, Artemis Entreri," the man sing-songed. Entreri held back a scowl at the way the man purposefully stressed the wrong syllables in both of his names. "I am Brok Waylein, your host for this evening. Please rest assured that there is a great deal of joy to be had this night," Waylein grinned a self-satisfied and predatory grin, "although the greatest bulk of that pleasure will be mine!"

_He's mad,_ Entreri decided in short order. Madness lit the depths of this one's eyes, along with an abundance of cruelty and perversion. _Not since Menzoberranzan have I been in so much danger._ But the confident assassin did not panic; he focused his thoughts on searching for an opening.

"I was most surprised to find such a famous assassin in my territory," Waylein continued, the lilt still in his voice. "And, yes, my dear man, a few of my associates over the years have mentioned your name. And more surprised still was I to find a dark elf as well!" His grin threatened to split his face. "What fun shall I have over the next few days! Perhaps I will even heal the drow repeatedly so that he can supply me with a few months' pleasure instead!"

_That would be the last, worst mistake you could ever make,_ Entreri mused.

"But obviously I cannot allow such dangerous creatures as yourselves near to my beautiful woodland home," Waylein sighed dramatically. "So let us begin our evening together! The first course is poor Merrick here. He shall be your appetizer, so that you may better understand the great meal I have laid out before you." He twirled away like a dancer.

The soldiers came forward and removed the unconscious Merrick from the wall. The assassin kept a perfectly expressionless face as the soldiers poured a healing potion down Merrick's throat, then strapped him on the table. Entreri watched as the lesser cuts on the man's arms and neck faded and the larger gashes turned pink and started to pull inward. Merrick regained consciousness after a minute and spat curses at his torturer.

Maintaining an unwavering, almost absent grin, Waylein ignored the name-calling and reached out, ripping down Merrick's pants. "Let me know how much you like this," Waylein said as he unbuckled his belt.

With a sudden, brutal realization, Entreri understood what was getting ready to happen, and his objectivity began to slip. Waylein's song-like chatter receded into a mumble of meaningless noise to Entreri as he watched the madman force Merrick into position. Entreri averted his eyes from the assault, tried to close his ears against the sounds, but his mind showed him all too clearly what he did not want to see. It was too familiar.

When Merrick's screams quieted to whimpers, Artemis Entreri wasn't sure at all what his clash of emotions suggested. Disgust at the rape? Concern for his own fate? Hatred of Waylein? Perhaps. He had spent a lifetime hating men such as this one.

But Brok Waylein wasn't finished. He twirled in circles like a man dancing over to the fireplace and picked up the poker. He held it in the flames until the tip glowed red-hot.

Not wishing to acknowledge to himself where the madman was headed with the instrument, Entreri tore his gaze from the poker as Waylein headed back for his victim, and this time the assassin closed his eyes against the sight even as the screams of the dying Merrick seemed to puncture his eardrums. The weight of his anger and other nameless emotions were too much for the man, and just like many, many times before in the nightmare that was his childhood, Artemis Entreri felt the almost tangible click as his emotions disconnected from his mind. He sank into the comfortable coldness of apathy with a nearly vocal sigh of relief.

The soldiers cleared the dead body from the room, and Waylein spent several minutes obsessively cleaning his table. He sang a bawdy drinking song as he washed away the blood and urine. Entreri watched with clinical interest, his mind formulating multiple plans, strategies and scenarios.

He would not become the man on the table.

But Waylein did not proceed immediately with Entreri's torture. Rather, he left, saying he was hungry and it was time for his dinner. The assassin knew he was meant to contemplate his fate. Instead, he used the time to try and free himself, but he had nothing with which to defeat the magic of his shackles. _I'll just attack when the soldiers take me down,_ he reasoned.

Yet even after an hour had passed, Waylein did not return. From the next room came the sound of several voices, followed by the sound of a child crying, likely a boy. Entreri could hear Waylein shouting, could hear the child pleading with the shrieks of "No, Father, please!"

_No, Father . . . _

With these words, Entreri's mind jumped straight to the inevitable conclusion, and with this not-so-psychic prediction came a powerful sensation Entreri wasn't certain what to call: it seemed that a nightmare or a memory beat against his brain, trying to tear free. A resounding whack announced that Waylein had slapped the child, who yelped, and moments later the assassin heard the sound of tearing cloth.

Artemis Entreri, having witnessed the sadism and sickness of many, many men, tried to maintain his stoicism, his apathy, but failed. A visceral disgust swelled in his chest with such power he felt unable to breathe. He closed his eyes again, but his revulsion seemed to lodge in his throat long before the first screams of the child came through the wall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Jarlaxle had to fight the urge to growl in anger as his limbs grew stiff and heavy; his bones and muscles felt made of lead under the power of the holding spell. He could hardly even blink, and the dark elf did not enjoy at all such a sense of powerlessness. With simmering ire, he watched the soldiers drag in an unconscious Entreri and dumped him in the floor. After the soldiers had left and the spell had faded, Jarlaxle knelt at his friend's side and checked him over. The result of the inspection was not pleasing.

Entreri was a mass of nasty bruises and cuts, and the sponginess on the right side of his ribcage suggested broken ribs. His back bled freely from a dozen lashes and one long gash, and Jarlaxle had to wonder how his friend had been lucky enough to only receive a dozen. A series of circular burn marks marched their way up the man's left arm, and his bottom lip was swollen from what seemed to be a score of tiny puncture wounds, likely from a needle.

There was, of course, nothing that Jarlaxle could do, for he needed his healing orb in order to effect repairs, so he simply arranged his friend upon the floor in as comfortable a position as was possible and sat by him, watching him with concern.

A full two hours passed before Entreri regained consciousness. The assassin came to with a choked groan, and it took several minutes for his mind to clear and focus. Instantly, he scoured his memory of the torture, and relaxed only when he recalled that Waylein had not yet raped him. That distinction, Entreri suspected, was being reserved for his second and final trip to the torture chamber. In fact, the assassin's torture wasn't quite as severe as he'd thought it would be, and he mused with a dark humor indeed that Waylein was likely too exhausted from his earlier brutalities to do him justice.

Jarlaxle watched his companion fight his way into wakefulness. "Talk to me, my friend."

"Just a short dip into the nine hells," Entreri quipped in a croak of a voice. "Nothing too serious."

Jarlaxle smiled at the man's strength, but the dark grey eyes that gazed up at him told him a different story. There was a horror there, a pain there, that Jarlaxle had never before seen. Something had happened to Entreri that was not immediately obvious from his wounds. "In that case," the elf said with a flippancy he didn't feel, "we'll be up and out of here shortly."

Entreri blinked once, slowly—the shadow of a nod.

"Sleep," Jarlaxle said simply, but Entreri was already halfway there.

* * *

Entreri jolted awake with a choked gasp. The nightmare had been so real that the assassin, so often aware of and in control of his dreams even as he slept, had not known he was dreaming. Even now, he could still feel the hands grasping him, groping him, hurting him. 

Jarlaxle still sat beside him and was looking at him with a concerned and curious expression.

"It's nothing," the assassin immediately said, defensively. Why had his mind betrayed him so?

The mercenary nodded, knowing it to be a bald lie.

"How long did I sleep?" Entreri asked, trying to head off any questions.

"About four hours. I estimate that it is about three hours before dawn."

Entreri grimaced. Less than a day in this hellhole, and he felt like he'd been there a decade. "Plan?" He shortened his questions in deference to his parched throat.

"Yes," Jarlaxle answered. "But right now you need more rest."

Entreri didn't even bother to reply. He just went back to sleep, hoping against hope he wouldn't dream this time.

But there was no hope. Betrayed by a mind that had spent years burying the unthinkable, he awakened from a similar dream, sweating profoundly. This time, images of Merrick's torture had mixed with his memories to create one of the worst nightmares he'd ever experienced—and he'd had many nightmares over the course of his childhood, even after he'd fled his home.

Jarlaxle was leaning over him. "This is twice you have awakened so." He didn't have to spell out the implications—if something caused Artemis Entreri nightmares, it was serious. "Tell me what you saw, my friend," he demanded, his stern tone contradicting his concerned expression.

With almost superhuman effort, Entreri managed, with Jarlaxle's help, to pull himself into a sitting position. "Merrick is dead," he evaded. "He was right about the sadistic nature of this bastard." That was as much of a clue as Entreri wanted to give.

Jarlaxle was disturbed too greatly by his friend's nightmares to stop there, however. Curiosity, and apprehension over the danger, motivated him to keep pushing. "Tell me," he repeated.

Entreri was too tired to resist the nagging. He was weary, deeply weary. Would it hurt so much to report what he'd seen? It wasn't like Jarlaxle would make the connection, would be able to tell just from these few events the past the assassin had buried so deeply.

Entreri was too tired to catch the illogic of that thought. "Very well," he began, with the full intention telling the elf all that had happened. But the instant he got to the part about the first rape, an odd thing occurred: the assassin's throat closed up suddenly, choking off the words. Entreri frowned, confused. "My apologies," he murmured. "I guess my throat is still a bit dry." He cleared his throat. "As I was saying, Waylein then—" Again, his throat closed up. The assassin's frowned deepened. Obviously he hadn't regained the proper amount of professional distance yet, and as a result, the visceral disgust he felt made him unable to continue.

Jarlaxle stared at Entreri, surprised by his sudden muteness and brief look of horror. To the drow, Entreri's reaction might have been almost comical in any other situation, but for once, the elf was not laughing. Anything that could produce such a reaction in the assassin spelled doom, indeed. But amidst the drow's concern for his own welfare was another emotion; it did in fact bother Jarlaxle that his friend was so disturbed.

Entreri was shaking his head no, and Jarlaxle let it go for the time being. "Later," he said easily, "now go back to sleep. I'll need you in the best form possible very soon."

The assassin accepted this without question and lay back down.

Jarlaxle pondered the troubling turn of events for the rest of the night.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to my reviewers! I really appreciate your feedback._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Dawn found the two companions awake and ready for their escape attempt. Jarlaxle was disquieted by the extent of Entreri's injuries, but he knew the man would be rendered limb from limb before he accepted any further imprisonment or torture. Truly, the man's willpower was a force like magic, and it inspired a respect in Jarlaxle that he afforded few others, not to mention that it was one reason the drow had chosen the man as a business partner. Still, considering they were fighting without weapons and magic of any great quantity, Jarlaxle would have preferred having Entreri in better fighting form.

Despite their careful planning, Jarlaxle knew that much of their success rode on the wizard, for a wielder of arcane magic would not be frightened by fairie fire and the drow couldn't drop his globe of darkness until the cell door was open. Therefore, the pair was distinctly unhappy to see the wizard enter with the soldiers that morning.

"Your turn next, drow," the captain said as he approached their cell, three more soldiers following in addition to the wizard.

"I know what you're going to try," the wizard chimed in, leering, "and I assure you I will counter your magical darkness with a light so bright it will shine like the sun in this dungeon." The group passed by the cell, dragging a screaming, crying man—one of the prisoners they'd brought in the day before—further down the cellblock.

Jarlaxle frowned and glanced to Entreri after the men passed. "Such an action would defeat that portion of our plan," he whispered, "although the sudden daylight within these confines might blind the soldiers."

"And me as well," Entreri replied faintly, his concentration obviously divided.

"Indeed," the drow said. "But I don't see any other choice."

But the assassin did not hear him, for he was considering the implications of Jarlaxle's possible torture. Unbidden, the image of Merrick's assault came to mind, followed by the memory of the all-too-familiar screams from the unseen boy. Lastly came the recollection of Waylein's maniacal grin as he reveled in the thought of sending extra pain the drow's way. Before he could even think about it, Entreri moved in front of the elf, physically placing himself between Jarlaxle and the door.

"Entreri?" came a confused and curious voice from behind him.

The assassin turned around, still keeping himself between the elf and the cell door. The look on his face must have been too revealing because Jarlaxle gripped him by the shoulders. "What is it?" the elf asked.

Entreri shook his head. _What can I do?_ he thought. It was not an option for him to offer himself in Jarlaxle's place; Entreri was not the kind of man to sacrifice himself. Yet the vision of the drow on the torture table flashed through his mind . . . Waylein laughing, a burning-hot poker, the promise of even more grueling torment for Jarlaxle. _No,_ he thought. _There are some things that should never be allowed. But what can I do?_ Jarlaxle was staring at him a mix of concern and exasperation, and no answers were presenting themselves to Entreri. _Why am I so concerned?_ he wondered, for he had turned his back on many things in his life. But his mind tried to join into one picture this fate he understood all too well and the drow he'd traveled with for many months. _No, I must stop this,_ he thought. _But I cannot risk myself, either._

"Tell me, my friend. What did you see?" At Entreri's mixed look of disgust and horror, a bolt of concern shot through Jarlaxle's stomach. "I cannot prepare as well if I do not know what I am facing."

Entreri shook his head again and stared at a point above Jarlaxle's shoulder, apparently struggling with himself. His brow creased as he seemed to battle a memory or a question. Jarlaxle had never seen the man so disturbed, so perplexed. What was it that the man so wrestled with?

"You are going to have to tell me," Jarlaxle said, trying again to coax a response from the man. But Entreri simply closed his eyes, his frown deepening. The look of pain and confusion on his face was so great that the elf found himself nearly breathless with empathy.

Suddenly, Entreri opened his eyes and grabbed him by the upper arms, apparently struck with a thought. "Of course!"

"Entreri?" Jarlaxle whispered, tightening his own grip on the assassin's shoulders. "What is it?"

"I'm such a fool! I should have thought of that sooner!" the man continued as though Jarlaxle had not spoken, squeezing the elf's arms briefly.

"Artemis? Why didn't you think of what?" Jarlaxle asked, and he couldn't help noticing the note of urgency which crept into his voice.

All at once, any remaining uncertainty seemed to drain out of the man before him, and in its place was that haunted look from the night before. Entreri's hands fell away from Jarlaxle's arms, and the man nodded silently to himself. Jarlaxle could practically feel the assassin's self-confidence taking control. "No, it will work," Entreri stated calmly. The mask of the stoic assassin was firmly back in place; Entreri twisted out of Jarlaxle's grasp.

"What will work?" the elf asked, unable to hold off a sense of foreboding. "Artemis, talk to me!"

The soldiers approached their cell, and Entreri faced them, his expression confident but his demeanor a touch resigned. "No, I'll go in his place," he told the captain, his tone conveying only his poise, and he stepped forward to meet the soldiers before the familiar holding spell fell into place.

The captain snorted. "Fine by me. Waylein don't care as long as he gets to play."

"Artemis!" Jarlaxle exclaimed, but any further words were stopped by the holding spell.

The look of determination on Entreri's face was grim indeed, and Jarlaxle had the sensation that he had just witnessed something profound. Something highly profound from a selfish man who would never sacrifice himself for another person.

But if that were still true, what had Jarlaxle just witnessed? A thousand questions descended upon the drow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Jarlaxle sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor and experienced something uncomfortably close to fear. Over the years, he'd liked several of the soldiers under his command, had given them friendly advice, had called them "friend." Never, though, with the possible exception of Zaknafein, had he ever had an actual friend. Such things were just not possible in a world of betrayal, a world in which every relationship hinged on convenience and manipulation.

However, Jarlaxle had realized long since that he liked Entreri better than the others, liked him as well as he'd liked Zaknafein, and that he'd gone out of his way to stabilize the assassin's sanity when he came to the surface. It was business, but it was more than business: first of all, the human was fascinating, and Jarlaxle enjoyed puzzles. Secondly, Entreri was his only excuse and resource for staying on the surface, and he desperately wanted time away from Menzoberranzan, time spent exploring the surface world. But even more important, for all the control and influence he could bring to bear upon the man, Entreri still surprised him at times, which could be delightful . . . within reason.

Jarlaxle sighed to himself, propping his elbow on one knee and resting his hand on his fist. Admittedly, Entreri was special—he had done one thing that surprised Jarlaxle above all others. He had gone to great personal risk to save the dark elf physically from his traitorous lieutenants, and to save him mentally from slavery to the crystal shard. Jarlaxle snorted to himself, knowing in no uncertain terms that he'd never confess that truth to Entreri or thank him for it. And why would he, since there had to have been a pay-off for the assassin? Yet although Jarlaxle had no doubt at all that the human had solid reasons for his actions, the reasons didn't completely hold up under careful scrutiny, and the mercenary had spent hours, while the human slept, pondering the question.

Normally, the elf would laugh at this point in his line of inquiry, for he had ensured that the human would need him. And he had succeeded: Entreri had needed him for his own safety. Yet Jarlaxle didn't see that that entirely accounted for the man's actions, and more to the point, Jarlaxle had held no doubt that the human would not reject his offer of friendship. In fact, that need for friendship, that control, was all that enabled Jarlaxle to choose him as a traveling companion. But Jarlaxle, after centuries spent in the paranoia of drow society, could not trust the human past the point of that control. Could not stay beside him unless he knew for certain that his many magical tricks could ensure his survival should they ever fight.

But sitting alone in his cell, other memories came back to the elf. He and Entreri sitting outside of the Spirit Soaring, and the assassin asking, with personal interest, where Jarlaxle would go next. The human's surprising choice to remain with Jarlaxle at all. The foul-tempered but still ultimately compliant way Entreri stayed by him no matter how insane the elf's adventures became.

To the best of his ability, Jarlaxle realized with a shock, the human was being his friend.

Entreri's ability, of course, was the question, but his ability was exactly what Jarlaxle was manipulating. He smiled, momentarily, at his own jest after he'd pressed the man into apologizing to a serving girl he'd scared: _"I will have you in a paladin's order within a year!"_

But did either one of them really know what it meant to be a friend?

No.

Yet the look on Entreri's face before the soldiers took him away caused the mercenary's stomach muscles to clench. Such a look! The man had been struggling with a terrible question, and in the end, he'd decided to send himself into danger. Oh, the elf knew that Artemis had to have a plan, but that look! 

And the mercenary knew, too, that the concern he felt for his friend was for once quite real, and in his mind he could hear the voices discussing his old friend Zaknafein's death. Voices that laughed with scorn or snorted with skepticism at the possibility that the warrior had sacrificed himself for his son.

He had, Jarlaxle knew, although at the time he couldn't understand it.

But now that Entreri had pulled this stunt, however less than perfect in motivation it might be, Jarlaxle had to stop and consider a few things about the nature of . . . of . . .? The elf shook his head in confusion and pushed his thoughts ahead.

Zaknafein, despite his self-sacrifice, had never been the good man that Drizzt had become, but Drizzt had had his father as a resource to build upon. 

Jarlaxle was not the good man that Drizzt had become, nor could he imagine himself as such, even if—like Zaknafein—he could not be entirely like the other drow. He had not had any resources other than himself to build upon, and now that he was free of Menzoberranzan, he hadn't the desire.

And Artemis Entreri could never become a good man, either. He likely had not had the resources of Drizzt, and regardless, he had spent a long, long time pursuing the path of darkness. Yet the man had come so much farther than anyone, even Jarlaxle, could have ever predicted, and the mercenary meant to push him further still. Of course, the man would never accept help outright, but the mercenary was a master manipulator. And Entreri already knew deep inside what Jarlaxle was trying to get him to accept: that his life was empty and a lie. Surely it would not be so hard to get the man to face that and move past it, and besides, the mercenary hardly meant to actually create a paladin.

But what the mercenary had not counted on, because it seemed so unlikely and because he didn't understand the concept too well himself, was that the human might prove to be a friend to him. And even as Jarlaxle's suspicious drow side discounted the possibility, the odd streak that made him more like Zaknafein countered with a simple image: Entreri, leaving with the soldiers. Still, to attempt any genuine friendship with Entreri, Jarlaxle would first have to protect himself well, but if the human really did . . ..

Did what? And Jarlaxle's thoughts crashed into a mental brick wall so hard that his endless darting calculations evaporated. However, the mercenary knew, without conceit, that he was a clever elf and that he would figure it out with time.

Time that neither he nor Entreri had. And the worry hit him again, squarely.

The dungeon door opened, and a single guard entered and approached the cell. Jarlaxle watched the man carefully as he tossed a hard roll through the bars.

"Here's breakfast," the guard laughed. "Eat it before the cockroaches do."

How to find out what fate Entreri might be facing? A plan hit the mercenary. "Is it true Merrick is dead?"

The guard chuckled. "Oh yeah. He's dead all right."

"And what lovely tortures, may I ask, did Waylein use upon him?" the elf asked carefully, feigning morbid interest.

The guard leaned against the bars and leered at him. "I guess a drow like yerself would enjoy it, huh? Enjoy watching it, and enjoy the experience, too, perhaps?"

"What experience?"

The guard chuckled again. "Old Waylein raped the pig up the ass then repeated the process with a hot poker."

"Ah." Jarlaxle was careful to sound bored, but in truth his mind was whirling. That was what Entreri would face if he didn't escape! That was what Jarlaxle would have faced if he had gone and had been unable to escape?

The guard snickered and left, and the mercenary found his concern so thick that for a moment he couldn't breathe—an unprecedented and odd reaction, indeed. The torture was worthy of the drow, all right, but what did it mean that this particular mode of torture would cause someone as cold and stoic as Entreri to have nightmares? And immediately the elf's mind launched two separate lines of thought: one, a new plan on how to escape and rescue his friend; two, the line of thought he'd just finished, with the new information added in.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Entreri, still pretending to be somewhat stiff from the fading holding spell, waited patiently until the soldiers had dragged him through the great hall and had climbed the arching stone staircase to the second story. Once into the looming hallway, with its shadowy recesses, oil portraits, and tapestries, the assassin decided to make his move. Here, on the second floor, there were no standing guards, and it would take several moments for the ones in the great hall to run to their companions' aid. There were only four soldiers escorting him today, so this would be his best chance despite his injuries.

It was also going to be his last chance.

Entreri frowned to himself as he waited for the perfect moment to make his move. The confusion and indecision he'd faced in the dungeon cell had not been to his liking. Of course, it hadn't been an option for him to offer himself in the elf's place, and yet the vision of Jarlaxle on the torture table, of Waylein with a burning-hot poker, had refused to leave his mind.

But then Entreri had realized he'd missed the point. It hadn't been a question of who had to die; it had simply been a question of who had the best chance of escaping. Jarlaxle, he knew, was the craftiest creature he'd ever met—surely he would escape given the chance. Yet the assassin had already made one trip to the chamber, had already seen the fortress's layout, and had also spent a lifetime in the art of evasion. Not only as a professional, but as a child. He'd made an art of hiding and dodging and manipulating, an art of trying to escape his father and uncle, and that experience had made him all the stronger. Jarlaxle was stunningly clever and a veteran mercenary, but Entreri knew he had the best chance of escaping. So when the soldiers had approached, Entreri had acted without bothering to think it through any further, just as he had months earlier at the psionic door in the crystal tower. It was a disturbing trend, and one Entreri would have to bother himself to reflect upon before he got himself killed.

But not right now. Now the time had come to prove he was correct about his abilities. They were nearing the final corner that would take them to the staircase which led up to the third level—the staircase that led to Waylein's bedchamber and torture chamber. Entreri's chance was upon him, and luck was with him. As they neared the corner, the wizard parted from the group at the last doorway. Entreri's relief was profound. What fools they were to only have three soldiers escort him! This simplified matters greatly. Still, when the captain took his position behind the soldiers who half-carried Entreri, the assassin knew he had to take out the captain first. Without weapons, Entreri concluded he only had one option if he were to have any chance of success.

The assassin tensed his leg muscles but kept his upper body relaxed. He could give no signal to his guards. Then, with one powerful step, a snap of his muscles that pulled upon every ounce of strength and speed the man possessed, he propelled himself forward, tucking his body into a somersault and using the soldiers' grip on his arms for leverage. A third of the way through the flip, he kicked out with his right foot directly into the face of the captain, shattering his nose just as he began to draw his sword. Entreri landed on his left foot first, and as even as his right foot touched the ground, he jerked free of the guards. His somersault had brought him two advantages—it had shocked the soldiers and loosened their grip upon his arms.

Entreri wasted not a moment. He whirled in a circle, avoiding the sword thrust of the soldier on his right, who had jumped into action, and placing the other soldier between them. The second soldier, while likely a decent guard, met his match from the life-long thief; Entreri had one of the man's swords in hand before he even realized what had happened. The assassin gashed his back and pushed him into the first soldier, then charged the injured captain. The other two soldiers recovered fairly quickly, but nine hells' worth of devils might as well have been pursuing Entreri for all the speed and desperation he evidenced. It might have been a reckless move, but he succeeded in slashing the captain's throat, lowering the odds to his liking.

Before he could act further, one of the remaining soldiers yelled for help. _So much for that,_ he thought, quickly throwing himself into the fight. He had less than a minute to incapacitate these two and flee. With a brutal lunge, he stabbed forward, and the first soldier predictably blocked. Entreri, however, spun and ducked the returning slash, and sliced open the man's gut before straightening. The soldier dropped his sword with a scream, trying to hold in his intestines. The second soldier was on top of him then, but the assassin had expected the move and blocked his thrust, simultaneously kicking out and shattering the man's knee. Without hesitation, Entreri snatched up the first soldier's sword so he could have two weapons and fled for the nearest corridor, a stampede of approaching feet at his back.

* * *

Entreri smiled to himself as yet another pair of soldiers passed by his position. He'd worked his way back down to the first floor using a back staircase he'd located. Several soldiers had met their demise as a result, but the assassin had been careful not to leave an obvious trail in his wake. What intrigued Entreri, however, was just how well he had been able to hide from the searching soldiers. He was a master of stealth, it was true, but even the faintest of shadows seemed to be able to conceal him perfectly. Again, the assassin found himself wondering what effect the shade's life-force was having upon him. That question, however, would have to wait for another time. The first order of business was to get out of this mess—alive. 

Entreri scowled, holding down the surge of disgust and anger that threatened to overcome him at the thought of what he would have faced in the torture chamber. Just thinking about Waylein's sadism made the assassin clench his jaw. Bastards such as Waylein inspired thoughts of great violence in the man, a fact Theebles had been the first to learn. Especially when they threatened him with such . . . things.

Entreri held his thoughts still as he watched four more soldiers pass by, then moved down the corridor another ten feet to hide behind the base of a statue. In his mind he could see the layout of the first floor, could remember every cubbyhole, statue, and side hall he had passed. No matter where he was or why he was there, Entreri automatically, subconsciously took note of all possible places of concealment—and all possible places from where an attack could come. From this picture-perfect memory, the assassin could create a plan.

Another group of soldiers were approaching from behind him, and the Entreri moved down to the next statue, hovering in the shadows. Just a few more minutes, and he would reach the desired door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Jarlaxle wasn't surprised at all when the soldiers returned later, _sans_ Entreri, to take him to the torture chamber. He only hoped that his friend had escaped, or at the least was still alive in the chamber. Having decided that his best chance lay in breaking free during the trip to the chamber, the mercenary accepted the holding spell with patience, and ticked off in his mind the time before the spell released him. He planned to use his will power to throw off the last of the spell's effects before creating some havoc of his own.

Alas, the wizard was prepared for that possibility and had the soldiers knock out the elf before removing him from the cell.

Jarlaxle awakened some time later with a throbbing headache, more frustrated and irritated than he'd been in a long time. Still, he had plans, and none of them included getting tortured. He glanced around the empty chamber, taking in the display of torture devices which were bathed in the early afternoon light washing in from the barred windows. Entreri was nowhere in sight, which the mercenary realized was either a very good or a very bad sign.

The door opened, and a tall grey-haired man entered followed by two soldiers. The man, presumably Waylein, looked peeved and was fingering the pommels of the two sabers hanging at his sides. The soldiers looked scared, and Jarlaxle felt a bit hopeful at this observation. The man stopped before him and brought his hands down to his sides.

"Your friend has escaped—temporarily," Waylein greeted him, "but don't become too hopeful. I have dozens of soldiers looking for him, and I have you right here under my nose. Of course, your so-called friend may just abandon you, but I assure you that he won't make it out of this fortress alive. Especially alone."

Jarlaxle grinned slyly, for the man had no idea what Entreri was really capable of. Still, the thought of betrayal did pass through the dark elf's mind. Would Entreri, now free, simply save himself? The assassin that Jarlaxle had first met surely would have. But Entreri had chosen to send himself into danger earlier; surely this precluded the possibility that the assassin would abandon Jarlaxle now.

Unless Entreri had sent himself in Jarlaxle's place because he had figured out the perfect plan to escape and save himself. Or unless the assassin, now liberated, followed the allure of freedom and decided not to risk himself further. If either of those were the case, thoughts of his companion would not have even entered his mind.

No, the drow tried to tell himself. It wasn't that. Jarlaxle was an elf of many precautions, even an elf of a few secret, deeply-buried fears, but he dared to hope that he would not be left here alone, for practical reasons if nothing else.

"But enough of such depressing things," Waylein declared, his voice almost melodic. "Let us move on to more pleasant considerations. Ever have I wanted to meet a dark elf! And ever have I imagined what a wonderful experience torturing a drow would be!" Green eyes sparkled with a mad light, the man's anticipation evident.

Jarlaxle dismissed the sigh that threatened to pass from his lips.

As Waylein took a moment to study his many, many torture devices, the door to the chamber opened again. The man spun toward the interruption in anger. "This had better—"

Artemis Entreri jumped through the door, two long swords in his hands, picking off the surprised guards with practiced ease. Jarlaxle nearly laughed with delight, but as the door fell shut behind the assassin, the mercenary frowned. A dozen cuts and slashes decorated the already previously injured man, and a shallow puncture wound bled freely on his left leg. The swords he carried dripped with gore, and Jarlaxle knew Entreri would have taken out several soldiers on his way to the chamber, but overall things did not look good. Not good at all.

Waylein drew his sabers without hesitation. "So here you are, my latest pet. How rude of you to avoid our most important morning together! We must remedy that situation."

At this insinuation, Entreri grasped his swords so tightly that his knuckles whitened for a brief moment, and the look of pure hatred and rage on the man's face would have made anyone sane faint. His eyes narrowed in on Waylein like a tiger's on a hare. The tormented assassin had had enough of this sadistic freak. From his father, to Theebles, to a dozen others just like them, he had had enough of men like him, period.

"Do not look upon me with such loathing, dear pet," Waylein commented airily. The two swordsmen measured and began to circle each other. "As an assassin, I'm sure you understand the subtle pleasures of pain." The man punctuated his comment with a quick thrust forward, a teasing feint that did nothing at all to rattle the assassin.

Jarlaxle watched tensely as the humans maneuvered themselves into more favorable positions. Being chained to the wall was not the elf's desired seat for such a show, so with Waylein's attention diverted elsewhere, the mercenary began working on his shackles, trying to diffuse their magic.

Entreri glared at the man, who seemed to wear the face of every man of his kind the assassin had ever known. He wanted to destroy the man, to verbally flay him and then repeat the process physically. And he knew how to begin. "Do you expect me to fear someone like you? Do not play me for the fool," he taunted as he circled the man. "In the underworld, it is common knowledge that those who get such great pleasure out of torturing and raping prisoners are overcompensating for their past experiences." The contempt in his voice was like acid.

Jarlaxle hesitated in his efforts, surprised by Entreri's verbal jab. Whatever had made Entreri choose that line of attack?

"Unlikely!" Waylein replied just a bit too forcefully. He stabbed forward in a feint and followed through with his second saber, but Entreri easily parried.

"Let me guess," the assassin continued without pausing. "Weak as you are, you think torturing others will give you back your pride, or perhaps your control and power?"

Pride. Control. Power. Jarlaxle's mind jumped down several paths at once.

Green eyes flashed with a deep, deep wrath, a wrath past the point of sanity. "You're being ludicrous!"

"Is that so?" Entreri mocked him. In his rage, the assassin had not only forgotten he had an audience, he hardly cared, and when Waylein failed to answer, he continued his vicious taunts with a smirk. "Let me guess: you rape your prisoners because you fail in bed with women. Or maybe because you're sick of having your advances rejected by men?"

Jarlaxle couldn't seem to shake his feeling of foreboding. The assassin seemed so bent on ridiculing the man, far past the point he normally taunted his victims. What did it mean?

Entreri kept pressing. "Or perhaps this is your desperate attempt to escape your nightmares?"

Jarlaxle frowned, something subtle tickling the back of his mind.

"Not true!" Already unstable and provoked beyond reason, Waylein attacked the assassin wildly, and the injured man had difficulty keeping up. Metal rang against metal for several minutes, sparks shooting from the blades at times, as Waylein drove forward and Entreri beat his attacks aside.

Finally, Waylein seemed to understand that he would have to employ a great deal of wit to kill this man, even though he was wounded. He visibly brought his emotions under control and backed off, still facing Entreri.

"You presume to judge me, assassin?" He returned taunts, the gleam in his eyes one of joyful malice. "How many people have you killed?"

"True enough." And with that admission, the assassin's past seemed to burn at his skin, even if it were just for a moment. "But why would that make me unable to judge a man who rapes his own son?" He snorted.

_Rapes his son?_ Jarlaxle thought, and did not like the implications. For all his knowledge of drow tortures, Jarlaxle felt his stomach sinking. In truth, the dark elves could out-think anyone when it came to pain and suffering, but humans were not without dark ingenuity. Despite the shadows he'd dwelled in, the fact that humankind was also capable of great, unimaginable evil was not lost on Jarlaxle.

"It was simply that the boy failed me and needed to be punished." Waylein was seething; his eyes seemed to nearly glow with a wild light. "And you cannot judge my actions. I am free to live my life as I see fit!" The man's words became louder and louder, his face redder and redder. "Besides, you have not lived my life! It is not as though you know what it is like to be so misused by your own father!"

_The boy needed to be punished?_ The sick sadism and familiar sting in it galled him, and Entreri, in his fury, thought his soul would jump up his throat and out of his mouth. "Is that your excuse?" Entreri bit out, his sarcastic façade faltering. He hated this man who seemed to be just an older, thinner version of the man he'd once loathed most in all the world. The hatred, the familiarity, evoked such a visceral rage that Entreri was speaking before he knew what he was saying. "Do you think yourself the only man to suffer betrayal at the hands of a father? How about father and uncle! Yet I would never sink to your level."

Jarlaxle's eyes closed for just a moment, the implication was so profound. The rage of it, the horror of it, scratched in the undercurrents of Entreri's bitter, sarcastic tone. He opened his eyes and looked upon his friend, and he saw, at least in part, like a line of stars pointing to the brightest star in the night sky, the progression of a killer. Of a man who'd lost the ability to feel compassion and empathy—a man who'd allowed himself to be swallowed by anger and bitterness. And he knew, with all his own limited heart, that he had to genuinely help this man. And Entreri's next words hinted that Jarlaxle might succeed:

"You could in turn betray your own son?" the assassin hissed, and that momentary flare of empathy, or insight, or sense of wrongness, however brief, was a clear sign to a curious puzzle-solver, a master game-player, and a concerned friend. The spark, of course, was immediately buried under Entreri's dark rage, but the drow noted its passing all the same, and the plans exploded in his mind—brilliant, dangerous, amusing, heart-breakingly painful, and ultimately mutually beneficial—if only they could escape.

But even that was not really an obstacle. Jarlaxle relaxed in his chains, secure that he'd diffused enough of their magic and knowing that the normally passionless assassin would, in his genuine rage, best Waylein. The anger and its accompanying energy would temporarily overcome Entreri's wounds.

It was Waylein, however, who attacked first, a rather brilliant feint and strike, but one the experienced assassin saw through instantly. Entreri simply dived to the side, headlong into a roll that brought him under and clear of Waylein's gleaming sabers. Regaining his feet, the assassin inched back in, picking off a few tentative strikes from the older man before jumping into sudden motion with a quick thrust of his right blade. Waylein managed to parry, then counter with a thrust, but Entreri twisted his left-hand sword past and then inside of the thrust and pushed the saber out wide. Waylein, sensing the next move, desperately parried the follow-through and jumped clear, only to turn and cut his right blade across, trying desperately to slash the assassin's throat.

Entreri simply leaned back, easily defeating the attack, but he knew he had little time left. He had lost too much blood. He pressed forward, a fury of attacks, beating Waylein back from the sheer force and number of hits, and watched with satisfaction as the man began to panic. He ran up practically on top of the man, only to circle to the side at the last possible instant, sliding his right-hand sword through the Waylein's ribs and into his heart even as his left-hand sword countered the man's final strike.

Waylein was dead before his body completely collapsed to the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Entreri dropped the swords and turned away from Waylein's body, the rage visibly draining from him. Jarlaxle was grateful, then, for the life-force of the shade that Entreri now had running through his body, because without it, age would have surely taken a piece out of his friend just then. As it was, the assassin merely looked tired.

Wordlessly, Entreri picked the lock to the Jarlaxle's shackles, and a quick search of the impressive weapon collection in Waylein's adjoining bedroom located their weapons and other items. Properly prepared and with strategies in place, they fought their way out with only minor difficulties, although Jarlaxle had to take more than his fair share of action due to the assassin's many injuries. Once they'd gained a reasonable distance from the fortress, they slowed to a walk in deference to Entreri's condition, careful to stay off of the trail and to remain well hidden in the trees. Fortunately, the sun was setting, and twilight would soon help conceal their escape as well.

The silence between the two was uncomfortable. Jarlaxle watched his friend, but the assassin, now calm, had an unreadable expression and seemed deep in contemplation.

Jarlaxle's first inclination was to be surprised by Entreri's outburst, but when he considered the man's personality, he acknowledged that underneath his stoic façade, Entreri was an angry man. Such rage would inevitably resurface. Still, Jarlaxle stopped to consider the assassin's words. It seemed to the elf that it had simply begun as an attempt to taunt Waylein, to knock him further off-balance; however, Entreri's final words, Jarlaxle knew, were a reference to the blackest memory of the man's life and the greatest part of his unrelenting anger. This realization left Jarlaxle feeling quite odd. Was this a feeling of protectiveness, perhaps? Or a surge of compassion? Jarlaxle wasn't sure.

For his part, Entreri was sifting through his memory. A sense of foreboding poked at his mind, telling him that he had overlooked something important; additionally, now that he had calmed, he was suffering from an emotion he couldn't quite identify at the thought that Jarlaxle had seen him lose control of his anger. Was he feeling mortification? _What exactly did I say?_ he wondered, angry at himself.

No, he couldn't afford to be angry, he realized. The hatred in which he'd grounded his entire life, the rage he'd felt toward weak, sadistic men like his father—an anger that he had first felt toward the thug Theebles had sent to test him—had caused this problem in the first place. The rage had somehow torn free of him. He hadn't been so angry at anyone in a long time. Not since Drizzt. But what had caused his control to slip so?

Had it been because Waylein had desired to do such . . . things to him? Or was there more to it than that? Entreri thought hard. He remembered being disgusted by what Waylein had done to Merrick, and then there was the child, which was too familiar—

The assassin shook his head, finding he didn't want to ponder these things. Still, when he glanced at the silent drow walking beside him, the uncomfortable feeling returned. _What exactly did I say?_ he wondered again.

Entreri thought through as many of his words to Waylein as he could. First, he could recall taunting Waylein, trying to destroy the unstable man. He'd made some comment about how many people Waylein had raped, he remembered, and one very vicious jab implying the man was sexually inept. The assassin grinned wickedly. Occasionally he had more fun taunting his victims than fighting them.

But he'd also said something about nightmares. Entreri held back a grimace at that. The assassin himself had had two nightmares during his imprisonment, and although they'd been the first nightmares he'd had since late childhood, Jarlaxle had been there to see them!

Entreri clenched his jaw, willing himself to remain calm. Jarlaxle knew he liked to taunt some of his victims. Just because the assassin happened to also have had a few nightmares wouldn't make Jarlaxle assume that—

The assassin literally stopped in his tracks, and the drow also halted, glancing back at him. Entreri's final words came back to him all too clearly: "Do you think yourself the only man to suffer betrayal at the hands of a father?"

Entreri wanted to utter an unusually vile curse but didn't dare let a single muscle on his face twitch. The implication was there, and Jarlaxle was smart enough to catch it. A moment of horror descended upon him in which he considered either killing himself for letting his rage best him or killing Jarlaxle for knowing too much.

The drow was regarding him with concern. "It's my leg," Entreri lied evenly, suppressing the horror and resuming his limping walk. "We'll have to stop soon and see to it." That much, at least, was true.

Jarlaxle nodded without comment, and they continued weaving their way through the trees. Entreri walked behind the mercenary so he could hide his scowl. It was too late now, he told himself brutally, but he did draw comfort from the possibility the drow might not think much of it. After all, as Entreri had become aware during his stay in Menzoberranzan, drow did many unspeakable things to their children, especially the male ones. Perhaps the mercenary had hardly bothered to note it. As a male, there was no telling what Jarlaxle himself had experienced as a youth.

That thought screwed Entreri's face up into a look caught somewhere between intrigue and the disgust he typically felt toward the drow.

Still, it was not something that Entreri had wanted known, and so he made a solemn note to himself. After all, his pride over his skills and his obsession with Drizzt had cost him much. His overblown respect and fear of the drow had nearly cost him his life. And now the hatred and rage in which he'd grounded his entire life had cost him his privacy. He had to keep on his game, to keep in control, and not let such things ever happen again. For now, he could only hope the clever mercenary—if he indeed thought anything of it at all—could tell the difference between the assassin's taunts and his honest words.

Entreri needn't have worried since Jarlaxle had dismissed the taunts as just that. However, Jarlaxle was reflecting upon the irony of the situation. After all, in his eyes, both Waylein and Entreri were obsessed with power, control, and pride, even if they didn't express it in the same ways. Was Entreri aware of the truth and hypocrisy of his reaction to the man? Jarlaxle frowned and dismissed the question, focusing instead on two other pieces to this puzzle: Entreri's hatred of Waylein and his refusal to perpetrate such a crime himself. _Ah, my friend_, Jarlaxle mused. _You do indeed have hope._

Jarlaxle glanced back at the man once more and smiled at him. "Well, my friend, I must thank you for rescuing me. I admit, once I'd learned you had escaped, I had to wonder if you'd not save yourself and abandon me to the joys of Waylein's tortures." The elf said it jokingly, but in truth he was partially serious.

"Abandon you?" Entreri echoed incredulously. It had not even occurred to the man to abandon his friend, and it especially had not occurred to him to abandon the elf to one as twisted as Waylein.

Jarlaxle smiled and tipped his hat to Entreri, and when he turned away to keep walking, his smile nearly split his face.

Several minutes of silence passed, and then the footsteps behind Jarlaxle suddenly stopped. The elf turned to find Entreri leaning against a thick redwood tree, and Jarlaxle could clearly see that the assassin had grown even paler from the continued blood loss. The mercenary gazed at the man and wondered what to do about the sudden awkwardness between them. Entreri, he knew, trusted him enough to embark upon this adventure with him, but the assassin wouldn't trust him with such personal information any more than he'd allow the elf to help him. The drow would have to tread carefully, but business first. "Your wounds have almost overcome you." He glanced around, looking for a possible place to sit. A fallen tree trunk lay about ten feet away. "Can you make it to the fallen tree?"

Entreri nodded and stumbled forward again. Jarlaxle frowned as the human nearly dragged his injured leg behind him. He would collapse before reaching it, the elf realized, and decided to take a practical approach to the problem, especially since the drow could simultaneously make a point, a point about help. Laying a hand on the man's shoulder, he stopped the assassin, looping his arm under his and shifting the man's weight so that he leaned on him heavily.

"I can make it on my own!" the already-uncomfortable Entreri snapped, starting to pull away.

"I doubt that very seriously," the mercenary said evenly, catching Entreri's wrist in order to keep his arm across his shoulders.

The human shot him a murderous glare. "I'm telling you, I do not need help."

"Would it mean anything even if you did?"

Entreri refused to acknowledge the question with an answer. The elf merely laughed and guided them both the remaining distance to the perch. But as they sat side-by-side, Jarlaxle grew quite serious. Upon seeing that look, Entreri stared rather pointedly at the ground and looked ready to flee despite his injuries.

No, the drow concluded. The night's revelation was something that had to remain forever unspoken between them. Jarlaxle chose his words with care. "Although you rescued me, I still have seven times to your four."

"Seven?" Entreri echoed with obvious doubt. The elf could see him counting up the incidents in his mind, and he laughed.

Jarlaxle reached for his healing orb. "Don't die on me now, my friend," he teased, "we have many adventures left to go."

Entreri relaxed just a fraction, apparently realizing they were going to pretend nothing unusual had happened.

"And much more trouble to get into," Jarlaxle added.

The assassin slumped and sighed. "Of that, I have little doubt."

Jarlaxle smiled and held out his healing orb, chanting for a minute. It was going to take a while, the drow decided, to heal all the injuries, so when Entreri had recovered enough to walk again, he stopped chanting. "Come now, I'll finish this later. For now, we need to get as far away as possible." The mercenary stood and looked to his friend expectantly. Entreri rose gingerly, testing his leg, and then followed Jarlaxle without comment.

Once back to the safety of the caves they'd taken shelter in previously, it took several minutes for Jarlaxle to repair the rest of the assassin's wounds. But the man's barbed quips did not daunt the dark elf, who simply laughed them all off, and the mercenary sat in companionable silence afterwards, watching his friend fall asleep. The man deserved some peaceful sleep, he reflected.

Many adventures remained for the drow to plan for himself and his friend. Many indeed. And of more depth than he'd imagined, which suited him beautifully. The more complex the better.

_And where does the priest fit in?_ Jarlaxle wondered, immediately lost again in the complexities of Artemis Entreri.

He would not have it any other way.

* * *

_A/N: I really cherish having had the chance to share my very first fanfiction with you, and I appreciate those of you who have provided feedback. Special thanks to my fiance for acting as my betareader. _

Update, Revision on 1/03/05: Thanks to Alzadea for acting as my "gama reader" and also to darkhelmet, Dave, and Rezuri for tips.

"The Road to Redemption: The Progression of a Killer" was finished on May 9, 2004.


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